


Communion for the Antichrist

by lunicole



Category: EXO (Band), NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Antichrist, Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Character Death, Chinese Character, Communion | Eucharist, Inappropriate Use of Catholic Imagery, Korean-American Character, Los Angeles, M/M, Oral Sex, Priests, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex Work, Theology, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunicole/pseuds/lunicole
Summary: Kyungsoo hadn’t quite caught up on the new presence in the church, at first, when Lucas Wong had appeared out of thin air into his life. Kyungsoo’s been warned, when he was training in theology, to be careful as to how to put his energy into caring for the members of the church he was to officiate in, to know where his duty of spiritual counseling started and ended, and when to let other instances, social services and healthcare workers, take care of the pain that came with terrestrial existence. Still, it was hard to miss, the tall, hovering figure not too far from the entrance, standing next to the stained glass windows as if to hide from the light, never coming forward to accept communion still, every Sunday.There was something like a calling in the way he’d seen Lucas Wong attend these first masses, something that reminded Kyungsoo of the tales of the Jesuit martyrs he’d read as a young novitiate. There was something like the call of a new, budding faith, that had had him wanting to reach out, to touch, to set alight with everything he had, everything he could offer.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Communion for the Antichrist

**Author's Note:**

> Putting a giant CW here for blasphemy! Please check the tags and check with your own conscience before reading thank you~

"How did you end up in California again?" Kyungsoo asks quietly, looking at the horizon, leaning against the hood of his car.

Lucas is tall, the way a fashion model should be, and he looks like a still from an old Hollywood movie like this, embroidered satin jacket on his shoulders, relaxed as he lets out a sigh.

"To be a star. Like everyone who comes here," he chuckles softly, and while Kyungsoo expects some bitterness there, there isn't any, not at all. "Well. Maybe not you."

He sucks on the straw of his iced frappuccino, no sugar, soy milk, with no care for the loud noise it makes, almost like a dare. It's both innocent and lewd, the way Lucas is, whenever they get time together like this, with the strange friendship they've woven between each other.

"Maybe not me," Kyungsoo agrees softly.

Lucas is unfairly handsome, too, as he smiles and looks at him, sun kissed skin and large, expressive eyes. The height helps, too, how he's got almost an entire foot over Kyungsoo, along with a physique that reminds Kyungsoo of a very specific type of varsity sports player, the energy and yet retaining some of the softness of youth.

Sometimes Kyungsoo wonders briefly if Lucas Wong really knows he's gorgeous, or if that's part of the act he fashions himself, the way everyone seems to do in this city. He'll probably never know. Lucas Wong is hard to read, maybe from the limited English vocabulary, which he makes up for with his big smiles and peculiar manners.

Fresh off the boat, eyes bright with wild wild dreams still.

"Father," Lucas calls him cheekily, even when he's out of his priestly robes, as Kyungsoo drives him home. "Will you add me to your evening prayers tonight? I promise it won't be a waste for you, I swear."

The city passes them by in neon lights through the car windows, and Kyungsoo chuckles a little bit at Lucas's words, shakes his head, reassures him that yes, he does pray for him on occasion, along with prayers for the rest of the world's pain.

Kyungsoo came to Los Angeles as part of a small mission in a lower income, mostly immigrant church in a somewhat central neighbourhood of the city. The members of the community are mostly hispanic, and while Kyungsoo only knows the basics from high school Spanish, there is something endearing in how they call him _Padre_ yet still laugh at his uneasy pronunciation when he attempts to socialize with the rest of the parish at pastoral events. It's been a few years now since his arrival, and he enjoys it the way anyone would enjoy a place like this one, in the shadows of the big Hollywood dreams of prettier, whiter people.

It's funny because Kyungsoo doesn't care much about movies at all, at least not in the way he used to care about them when he'd first been assigned here, excited in a way he couldn't voice out loud. He doesn't care about any of the glitz that comes with it. He cares for his people, the mostly working class immigrant devouts that need to feel God's presence each Sunday, holds mass, takes confessions and lets the liturgical calendar dictate the rhythm of his days.

It's a different life than he'd imagined he'd live, all those years ago, when he was still green and idealistic about faith and the word of God. He remembers at times his first year here, the way the stark contrasts of wealth and misery of tent cities next to sprawling mansions shocked him before he became accustomed, yet not quite numb to it.

Objectively Kyungsoo doesn't know all that much about Lucas beyond the basics. Lucas Wong is an aspiring model-slash-actor who lives in a cheap motel while trying to catch his big break. He comes to mass every Sunday, confesses his sins when he can, never takes communion, standing in the back of the church with his hands in his pocket in an almost defiant way. He's from Hong Kong, has a hard time keeping up a conversation in English, smiles a lot instead. Somehow, or maybe in ways Kyungsoo knows too well, he never runs out of money for the expensive designer clothes he wears. He's charming, too, almost too much so, likes sugary drinks and has a high-pitched, ridiculous booming laugh that doesn't fit with his otherwise striking physique. 

He stops the car next to the gate of the low grade long term stay motel, letting Lucas Wong off there. It's an interesting contrast, the cheap neons proclaiming the establishment's name, Moonwalk Palace, the gaudy space race mural on the wall behind Lucas' tall, elongated form, the tiger jacket, the strong, powerful line of his shoulders.

Kyungsoo has a brief thought for Nicholas Winding Refn's _Drive_ , doesn't voice it out loud. Lucas, for all his Hollywood dreams, doesn't really watch movies beyond whatever Marvel churns out every year, and, to Kyungsoo's infinite amusement, anime with Chinese subtitles. An aspiring actor speaking broken English without any remote interest in anything but commercial movies. It's part of his unexplainable charm, Kyungsoo likes to think.

"You'll take good care of yourself until next Sunday?" Kyungsoo asks, even though he knows the answer already.

Lucas puts away his lighter, blowing the second-hand smoke away from Kyungsoo’s direction. The cherry of his cigarette has this deep red color that Kyungsoo can’t help but to look at, tendrils of white disappearing into the night.

"Don't worry about me, Father," Lucas lies so sweetly with a grin, winking at the priest, before disappearing into the night. "I'll stay out of trouble."

*

"I feel like my faith is changing," Kyungsoo finds himself admitting during a discussion with Junmyeon, one evening, as they share a meal in the apartment they both live in. It's a small, modest rental paid for by their congregation, right next to the church they both officiate. There was no available presbytery for them, so this was the simplest solution. Kyungsoo can't say he truly hates it, especially with how much more normal it makes him feel.

They're having takeout Chinese while watching Junmyeon's DVD of _Sound of Music_. The scene has something a bit surrealistic to it, Junmyeon still in his chasuble, too tired after a day at work to change upon coming home. Maybe there's something to be said about Julie Andrews' interesting approach to portraying a nun Junmyeon can't vocalize yet. Artistic differences.

Modernity is a weird thing for catholicism, in strange times such as the ones they live in. Gone are the days of large, sprawling convents and presbyteries, at least here, for servants of God with genuine vows of poverty. Kyungsoo had had a brief taste of it, during his novitiate, and he'd found out he cared very little for it, the heaviness and ceremonials that came with it so different from the kind of faith Kyungsoo himself aspired to. They'd sent him to Rome, from the beach town on the coast of North Carolina he'd grown up in, after frequenting a regional community college and majoring in theology before preparing for ordination.

Italy had been nice, without a doubt, the food delicious in every regard, but Kyungsoo like to keep that stay there as a fond memory, the visit of the Sistine Chapel and the rides on a Vespa one of the fellow Italian novitiates would take him on like a modern, robed version of _A Roman Holiday_.

Junmyeon nods at Kyungsoo's statement, slurping noodles, eyes on the screen. His enjoyment of musical theater has something almost comical to it, but Kyungsoo's isn't one to judge, especially not when it comes to interest in cinema and the endless teasing Junmyeon could be doing over the fact that he'd been assigned to serve in Los Angeles of all places. It fits them both, too, slow evening in front of the TV set they have here, Fred Astair filling the small cosy space with tap dancing from beyond the grave.

"How is it changing?" Junmyeon asks.

"It's shifting. Feeling God's presence still, but somehow..."

"... Somehow?"

Junmyeon using the confession voice, Kyungsoo realizes, and he can't help but to roll his eyes a little bit. This isn’t what he needs right now, but somehow voicing it out loud feels wrong, feels like something forbidden and shameful.

"I don't know. Nevermind."

Junmyeon doesn't prod further, and it's fine like this, Kyungsoo figures as he comes to sit himself next to the other priest on the couch.

_Sound of Music_ keeps playing on the small television set, and Junmyeon seems enraptured every time, even though Kyungsoo knows for a fact that he has watched it at least twenty times already. Maybe Junmyeon dreams of eloping from their priestly duties the way Julie Andrews did. Maybe Kyungsoo’s just projecting at times.

It’s still a nice lullaby as he lets himself get lost in thoughts, about God and the world, and about Lucas Wong asking him about heaven and the immortal nature of the soul.

*

Kyungsoo hadn’t quite caught up on the new presence in the church, at first, when Lucas Wong had appeared out of thin air into his life. Kyungsoo’s been warned, when he was training in theology, to be careful as to how to put his energy into caring for the members of the church he was to officiate in, to know where his duty of spiritual counseling started and ended, and when to let other instances, social services and healthcare workers, take care of the pain that came with terrestrial existence. Still, it was hard to miss, the tall, hovering figure not too far from the entrance, standing next to the stained glass windows as if to hide from the light, never coming forward to accept communion still, every Sunday.

There was something like a calling in the way he’d seen Lucas Wong attend these first masses, something that reminded Kyungsoo of the tales of the Jesuit martyrs he’d read as a young novitiate. There was something like the call of a new, budding faith, that had had him wanting to reach out, to touch, to set alight with everything he had, everything he could offer. 

After the silent realisation of a new believer joining their midst, there had been a different kind of energy to Kyungsoo’s profession of the credo, maybe out of a weird sense of something, anything, happening within these walls, the communion of souls, the very real, tangible sense of togetherness that couldn’t quite be put into words.

_Holy Spirit, Holy Catholic Church, Communion of Saints, Forgiveness of Sins, Resurrection of the Body, and the Life Everlasting._

Sometimes, Kyungsoo asks himself why he decided to take the cloth, and it’s always this, the sense of wonder and deep rooted connection to the world that came with mass. He’d never been very vocal about it, nor did he ever get heavily involved with anything else regarding faith as a child or teenager, but there had been no surprise when he had announced it to his family. Mother had cried, a little bit, both out of the shattered dreams of first-generation Korean immigrants and a display of unflinching love and trust. He’d held her, let her cry as she needed, resolute still.

He remembers catching bribes of Korean from Mother speaking on the phone with her sister back home late at night, about Kyungsoo leaving feeling like when his father had left too. He’d sat in his room, pressing his fists close on his lap, trying not to feel anger at what he knew was perfectly understandable fears, trying to exercise the kind of compassion faith dictated him to exercise.

“Please come, Father,” Lucas asks him over the phone, and his voice has this sweet, pleading tone to it as he does. “Lost souls to save there. And they can talk to you about those old boring European movies you like, unlike me.”

Kyungsoo’s eating breakfast outside on his day off. He’s had a hard time sleeping lately, and while he feels a little guilty for waking up so late, he tries to let himself indulge a little bit. They’ve got a nice little balcony in the residence, which he finds himself occupying on days where the sun isn’t too bright and when the smog isn’t too bad in their part of town. He reads there, the distant buzz of the engines like static noise in the back of his mind. The allowance he gets from the diocese doesn’t cover much eating out, but Kyungsoo’s always been one to enjoy eating at home, something simple, something nice, rice and banchans that remind him of family holidays and Mother slaving away in the kitchen on Saturday mornings, a tiny piece of home in a foreign land.

“I don’t mind talking to you about movies you haven’t seen,” he replies easily with a smile. Lucas is endearing when he whines. “Why do you want me to go with you to a Hollywood party anyway?”

There’s some shuffling on the other side of the line, and Kyungsoo finds himself wondering why Lucas is up at this hour on a Monday. As far as Kyungsoo’s aware, Lucas Wong is mostly a nocturnal creature, only ever getting up before noon for Mass he attends in their church every Sunday morning, and the occasional audition and small time acting gigs he has to be on set at ridiculous hours for. 

It’s probably the later, now that Kyungsoo thinks of it, some vague mention of working as an extra on a big budget set, excitement in Lucas’ voice.

_“Maybe I’ll even meet a big star! Do you think Scarlett Johanson is a sexy woman, Father? Oh… I shouldn’t ask you this, right?”_

Kyungsoo closes his eyes at the memory of Lucas's excitement, last time they'd seen each other.

“You’re my friend,” Lucas Wong answers the current question simply, like it's evidence. “Friends support each other.”

The statement has Kyungsoo pause, look down at the leftovers of egg yolk and rice and kimchi inside his bowl, something funny inside his chest, something he can't quite fully form yet.

*

“Tell me about Hong Kong,” Kyungsoo asked during one of their Friday evenings they’d spend driving to the hills outskirts of town to be reminded that they lived in a sprawling metropolis, really. 

He’d been nursing a cup of black coffee, and Lucas had changed his usual coffee order for iced tea. There had been a mention of being on a diet for an upcoming role, but it had been vague, deliberately so in a manner that definitely seemed like Kyungsoo wasn't allowed to prod further. The conversation had shifted quickly anyway. _Don't look too priestly_ , Lucas had asked, and Kyungsoo hadn’t been able to shake away the memory of his playful tone over the line as he'd picked an outfit for the evening.

The sun has set around an hour ago, but the air is still warm, the night still young. Lucas, under a nice jacket, is wearing a tank top that showcases his shoulders, and Kyungsoo can't help but to notice the ink that had peeked briefly from under the fabric, the very distinct look of intricate feathery wings occupying his shoulder blades.

He’d gotten a haircut, and a bleach job, too, hair a glaring shade of white that really, really looked out of place whenever Kyungsoo catched a glance at it reflecting from the fragmentary light shining through stained glass. Sometimes it distracts him on Sundays when he's reciting stories of the Gospel for the assembly to hear. It's not a bad look, but then, nothing really ever is a bad look on Lucas Wong.

“What do you want to hear about Hong Kong?”

Lucas had insisted on coming to see James Dean's bust at Griffith Park, and he'd dressed for the occasion too, handing Kyungsoo his cellphone and taking pictures for his Instagram. He'd joked about the tags, too, a flirty look in Kyungsoo's direction as he'd mentioned how gay men loved him almost as much as women did. As he'd looked down onto the smartphone screen, Kyungsoo couldn't help but to notice the fading bruise peeking from the side of his collar over golden skin.

Junmyeon had commented, briefly, about his interest in their church goer, the figure in the back, before Kyungsoo had left their shared apartment, something about taking care of not being too involved. Kyungsoo had shrugged it off, tried not to act like he cared. He didn’t, and he was allowed to enjoy something out of the church, a friend, perhaps, if whatever Lucas Wong was could be called a friend.

“I don’t know. Anything. The food maybe?”

“It’s the best in the world." A pause, and a deep hum. "The girls too. The prettiest girls in the entire world.”

Another disarmingly charming smile, and it’s all in the curve of Lucas Wong’s eyebrow, the almost cocky tilt of his plush lips. Kyungsoo has to look away, eyes on the horizon, the sunset behind them not quite as blinding as the way Lucas holds himself against the railing, a long line of legs and broad shoulders.

There's a brief moment where he thinks about girls, and there is no shame that comes with the memories of his old North Carolina home. They're memories, after all, high school, being the odd Asian kid out in a very white rural beach town, walking in the beach for hours on end all on his own. He'd been studious and reserved, but it hadn't kept him from doing the silly things teenagers did when bored with no outlet, feeling the fluttering need to want and be wanted in return. He remembers his first summer job at a local theater during the peak of tourist season, the girl manning the arcade set up next to it, her fiery red hair and how she'd give him a ride home in her pickup truck, talking about their shared guilty fondness of Wes Anderson's _Moonrise Kingdom_.

They'd made out in an empty projection room over a late night showing of _Fast and Furious_ , giggling the whole time, and then some more, before summer had ended and they'd both left for college in their own separate ways. Sticky popcorn floor and the sound of car explosion like a distant memory, soft panting and even softer flesh.

"What about you, Father," Lucas says, something soft in his expression, dragging Kyungsoo out of his own memories. "What about your home?"

Lucas is sweet, and Kyungsoo can only entertain him with a few stories about the oceanside hometown, the sound of the sea at night, about his mother's kimchi made with whatever was available in the local grocery store, and about how gorgeous the sunrise looked over the ocean. He doesn't talk about the girls, or more specifically, the only girl he'd ever had sex with, and Lucas doesn't prod.

When the drive back home is quiet, but not uncomfortable, Lucas's legs awkwardly folded in the passenger's seat as he looks out the window. Still, from the corner of his eye, Kyungsoo can't help but to notice his phone lighting up with unread text messages, the love bite on Lucas's neck peaking every now and then, the inky lines of clipped wings tattooed on his back as he lets his forehead rest against the glass window.

*

Kyungsoo isn't sure what he expected exactly out of this, but he knows this isn't it. He'd dressed in sensible clothes, an all black ensemble that had had Junmyeon raise an eyebrow yet not quite say anything as he'd given himself a once over in the bathroom mirror. Junmyeon is good at this, letting Kyungsoo have his own space, the same way Kyungsoo's good at overlooking the nights Junmyeon takes to go out and come back in the middle of the early morning while attempting not to make any noise to wake Kyungsoo up. It's not his business to put his nose into matters that don't concern him beyond the duty he's got to God and to his own morality, or at least that's what he tells himself.

It’s impossible that he hasn’t noticed it, as they live together, the fact that Kyungsoo has this special care for the handsome tall actor type that attends mass every sunday, yet never comes to the altar for communion. Junmyeon had joked about it at first, but he’d stopped after catching Kyungsoo’s unsure gaze.

More matters unsaid between them, their own secrets, maybe.

“You’ll be out all night, yeah?” Junmyeon still tells Kyungsoo as he's about to leave the house. "Call me if there's anything?"

There's just a hint of concern in his voice, something hanging in there, tenuous and fragile. Kyungsoo decides to ignore it.

"I will, don't worry," he says, shutting down the conversation and heading out the door into the chill breeze of Californian nights at this time of the year.

Sometimes Kyungsoo thinks about their first meeting, him and Kim Junmyeon. It was one of those things that were, in a sense, inevitable, one of those official dinners with both of their skin tones and black hair sticking out sorely in a sea of greying heads of white men of the cloth. They'd gotten along alright, the way both second generation Korean-American kids could, because in a lot of ways hanging out with Junmyeon makes him feel like a kid at times.

They don't talk too much about it, even as they'd started living together after being both assigned here, what Kim Junmyeon did before he found God and decided to become a priest at twenty-five. There are rumors, of course, but Kyungsoo can't let that get to him, even as he notices the medication he knows the other priest takes in secret, out of fear, perhaps, fear Kyungsoo wishes they could talk about one day.

Kyungsoo knows Junmyeon wasn’t always the calm, dependable priest he is today, and he knows there’s something in his expressions at times, when he officiates mass and speaks about the rebirth of souls that hits different, different than how Kyungsoo himself feels about a faith that’s always been there. He also knows that it’s not his business to open old wounds, to pry into things that don’t belong to him, not when it comes to whatever brought Kim Junmyeon to the service.

Kyungsoo sighs, tries to chase the thought away, his focus on the road. It's pointless to try to dig where it hurts, and so he won't, not now anyway.

The sense of being out of place doesn't abate when he checks the address on his smartphone, starts the engine, an excited text from Lucas Wong on his homescreen with a flurry of emojis he can't quite make sense out of. He hasn't been this nervous in years, really, and it's strange, this novel sense of apprehension in the pit of his stomach, something he finds himself unable to properly name.

*

It’s spring, in Kyungsoo’s memory now, as he drives through Los Angeles after sunset. Lucas Wong is laying on his back in the grass, hands coming up to shield his face from the sun half-heartedly. There's all the demeanour of a lazy cat in the way he narrows his big eyes yet doesn't make a move to truly hide himself from the sun. Kyungsoo has half a thought for being aggressively reminded to wear sunscreen as a child and a teenager by a worried Asian mother, but he remains silent still. It's a nice day, staying outside, watching the clouds after climbing up the impressive trek that leads up to Sandstone Peaks.

It had been nice, to allow himself a break from priestly duties to pack traditional banchans he'd learned to make not from his Korean mother but from Youtube videos in a truly 21st century display of diaspora angst. The food is solely for Lucas, ironically enough, as it is Lent, after all. Kyungsoo is bound by devotion to maintain abstinence and modesty in both desires and worldly delights.

"Do you think I'll go to hell ?" Lucas asks suddenly, because he doesn't have a filter, at least not when they're alone like this.

Kyungsoo looks at him minutely from his sitting position on a rock next to him. Maybe this is progress. He'd wanted this, wanted them to get more comfortable with one another so he'd be able to help him, maybe, the lone figure in the back of the church that never came forward for communion.

"Do you think you'll go to hell, Lucas?"

A pause, during which Lucas reaches for a cigarette in his pocket, lights it up slowly. The smoke curls around his pouty lips, Kyungsoo can't help but to note, attentive. 

"I know I will," he grins, sacrilege almost charming on his features. "If there is a hell."

Kyungsoo lets out a sigh, and he hadn't expected theological talk on his day off, but he doesn't mind, not too much, if it's Lucas.

"There are various ways of apprehending the notion of eternal life, be it through damnation or salvation," he explains. "What it means, how we feel about it, and how we can try to be the better version of ourselves when the time comes for us to appear before God."

It's the simplified version, really, but it doesn't seem to satisfy Lucas Wong, as he perks up to look at Kyungsoo with something sharp in his gaze. Kyungsoo isn't sure as to what to make out of it, because it looks like anger, it really does, and he's never really seen Lucas get upset over anything in the short while they've known each other.

"Don't change the subject, Father. You're not stupid. You know what I am, don't you?"

Kyungsoo can guess, but they've never properly talked about this, out of a strange sense of silence and shame. There had been fear too, maybe, that saying those things out loud, the very obvious fact that Lucas Wong, with his American pseudonym and his blinding good looks, scrapes by in this land of opportunities.

They’d talked about it, in what seemed like another lifetime, when Lucas had introduced himself and asked Kyungsoo to absolve him of his sins. He’d talked and talked and talked, seemingly endlessly, of the things he did, in details that never failed to make Kyungsoo look at his palms, repress any sin of intent in his own mind, too.

Kyungsoo had thought about it, during his evening prayer, a spiritual examination of his own perception of God's presence, and of the sins that inevitably came with the act of existing upon Earth. Still, it had been hard to try to find God's answer through it all.

"I don't know," he admits, soft. "It depends on you, on whether or not you wish to seek peace with God."

His hand moves as if to brush a stray strand of bleached hair from Lucas's forehead, but it stops halfway, something keeping Kyungsoo from going further, from committing something that would be damning, at least to his own conscience. It seems that Lucas catches it too, and it makes him grin, shaking his head, crushing the half finished cigarette on the ground.

"Oh, I am," he chuckles, something almost sour in his tone. It doesn't last, not too long anyway, before he gets back to his usual good-natured disposition. "Don't worry. I'll seek God's peace, one day or another. Maybe if it means more home cooked Korean food and free iced coffees."

Just like that, he's abruptly changing the topic to praise Kyungsoo’s culinary skills, playful and sweet, the way his usual self is. Still it stays with Kyungsoo, the brief moment of seriousness he'd seen from him, so different from his usual disposition, and the glint of something like a fire in his eyes, the bright sunlight encircling his head over dry grass like a broken halo.

*

It's not that hard to find Lucas Wong in a party, the towering height and the bright, bright smile. Kyungsoo catches his booming laugh first, but there's something stopping him as he watches him dance with no one in particular to the low hum of the bass by the pool, blue lights coming from the water caressing his golden skin.

He's gorgeous, his hair still a bright tint of silver, his smile never faltering as all eyes are on him, relishing in the attention, the knowledge of being wanted. It’s not right, Kyungsoo knows, given what Lucas does, but he still tries to turn a blind eye, fails.

_“He’s something else, isn’t he?”_ A grin, teeth white and straight and sharp, makes Kyungsoo turn around in surprise to look at the person speaking to him in his native tongue.

The stranger is speaking with the self-assured, uncomplexed Korean of someone who actually grew up in the motherland, the kind Kyungsoo himself never really managed to get the hang of. He's Asian and good-looking in a manner that feels definitely plastic yet strangely entrancing, around Kyungsoo’s height, clad in the casual expensive fashion that isn't too far from Lucas's most elaborate looks.

“Eye-catching,” the stranger adds in English. "Makes it harder to stop looking, right?"

Kyungsoo can only uncomfortably shift in his dress shirt that feels out of place, surrounded by men and women who make a living out of being beautiful and unattainable. The stranger has this slightly plastic quality to his nose that can't be fully natural, along with a boyishness that makes it hard to properly guess his age.

Kyungsoo, however, isn't unsettled by his appearance as much as he doesn't know what to do with the pale fire that seems to burn in his eyes.

"Baekhyun!” A familiar voice interrupts, and Kyungsoo turns to face Lucas once more. "Don't scare the Father!"

He’s got this giddy energy about himself as he never really seems to have when he's just with Kyungsoo, pupils blown wide and an easy giggle just waiting to spill from his lips. Kyungsoo isn't sure about how he feels about this version of Lucas, but he lets him hug him in this overly friendly, expansive way that seems more fitting for a sitcom than for the friendship he has with Kyungsoo. It feels forced, and Kyungsoo hates it, a little bit, even as he feels Lucas's slightly heated scent surrounds him like a warm blanket.

"I'll play nice, then," the stranger named Baekhyun says with a sharp smile that makes Kyungsoo doubt he'll do so. "Should have guessed your priest friend you keep talking about would be so handsome."

Lucas smiles, blushing a little bit, and he does this proper introduction thing. Byun Baekhyun, it turns out, is a casting director who's around Kyungsoo’s age and, apparently, quite a big deal in the industry. He picked Lucas Wong as an extra for the production they'll be starting soon, and the current party is happening in his house, or, more exactly, one of his houses scattered around the city. There definitely is an air of inherent wealth to his demeanor that Kyungsoo can't quite pinpoint, but he is as friendly, albeit in a somewhat detached and cool way that Kyungsoo has a hard time getting used to. According to Lucas's words, he is as much of a nerd when it comes to boring European movies as Kyungsoo is.

"I picked him for his looks, of course," Byun Baekhyun tells Kyungsoo as Lucas excuses himself to go dance some more. "We're going for a Lushino Visconti aesthetic, you know, gorgeous male actors in every corner. Are ordained priests allowed to watch movies with such obvious homoerotic themes, I wonder?"

Kyungsoo watches the casting director, the detached air about himself that he knows hides something more. He's nervous and he can't really pinpoint why, shakes his head and tries to make conversation for Lucas, at least.

"Liking movies isn’t a sin, as long as I don’t condone what might be wrong about them. Beauty can be divine."

“But can’t it be also sinful? After all, Lucifer was God’s most beautiful angel before he turned on him and committed the most heinous crime, his bringer of light, his morning star.”

A frown, which Byun Baekhyun seems to catch, explaining before Kyungsoo has the time to ask.

“I was raised a catholic,” he says simply. “And now, well… I live in the city of angels. Fitting.”

Kyungsoo takes that information in slowly, nodding as he does, something like pinpricks on his fingertips, his unease not abating.

“Well… To answer your question, art isn't sin, if that's what you're asking, as long as it isn't harming anyone.”

Byun Baekhyun hums at that, still smiling a smile Kyungsoo can't help but to feel makes his skin crawl.

"Spoken like a true man of God," he chuckles. "Like the Father himself."

He gets up, offers Kyungsoo a drink, and Kyungsoo accepts without thinking, making the casting director laugh, sharp white teeth glinting in the night.

*

Kyungsoo wonders sometimes when he started having the dreams. They’re strange dreams, vivid ones, that leave him panting and sweating in the small twin bed he occupies in his own room, clutching at his chest. He hasn’t told anyone about them, not even Junmyeon, not even his confessor, out of a strange sense of unnamed shame.

As a child, he used to have very powerful night terrors, waking up screaming in a way that had worried his mother enough to bring him to a doctor to try to figure out what exactly was wrong with him. Kyungsoo still remembers it, standing in the white tiled office, looking around himself, not quite picking up what was being said. He’d been asked about his sleep habits, about the food he ate, about how his mother, with her thick accent and her foreign ways that had to be somewhat suspicious in their little rural town.

They’d gone away, with time, breathing in and out whenever he felt panicky and unsafe from the fragmented memories of whatever sleep paralysis would feel like.

The dreams he has now are different, not quite like childlike terrors, and he has a hard time recalling them upon waking aside from the distant memory of fluttering feathers, and blinding lights.

He walks through the party a bit in a daze. Was there something in his drink? 

He feels floaty, not quite there, a little bit like when they prescribed him medication for him to be able to sleep. His childhood insomnia had been a relatively short lived episode, yet a memorable one, as following doctor appointments had been littered with questioning Kyungsoo about his current living conditions. He remembers most vividly, however, the drowsiness and the metallic taste that remained in his mouth during his morning class, for the year or so he had required the treatment.

The current slight buzz of what is a reasonable amount of alcohol feels warmer in his chest, the faint feeling of euphoria familiar and comfortable like one of the electric blankets he’d get at home during cold nights on the East Coast.

The mansion feels endless, with its sparse, minimalist mausoleum decoration, the music playing, the glitzy movie people seemingly squeezing in every corner. Kyungsoo’s been avoiding running back into Byun Baekhyun out of that same weird sense of unease that the casting director had left upon him, exploring what he guesses is his home instead. The place feels like a rented hotel with no decor that expresses anything like a personality or a sense of ownership. There are hardly any details that make the place feel lived in, which would make sense in a somewhat tragic way, when Kyungsoo thinks about it. 

He doesn’t dwell on it, though. There’s a boy who looks like he’s hardly twenty-one with bleached hair and a fast-paced speaking rhythm that attempts and fails to strike up conversation about a script he’s currently writing, something about a coming of age story set in the Pacific Northwest. Still, he slips Kyungsoo his card, a nicely, somewhat antiquated embossed cardboard piece in off-white that reads “Mark Lee, writer” in a style that’s both self-important and amateurish that Kyungsoo can’t help but to smile, a little, as he takes it.

“It’s also a philosophical horror script about fighting monsters and staring into the abyss,” Mark Lee says in an animated manner, and it’s obvious that he’s under the influence of something, although Kyungsoo can’t really pinpoint what, exactly. “Y’know Nietzsche?”

“The guy who said that God is dead, right?” Kyungsoo indulges the stranger.

Mark Lee’s eyes light up, and he gasps.

“Yeah, exactly! But there’s more to it, of course. I’ll send you a copy if you like? Would that work with you?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head, and decides to take his leave then.

“I’ll skip, thank you, but I hope I’ll get to see it in theaters in the near future, Mark Lee.”

It’s still a daze, the sprawling mansion, the various bodies of flesh and soul pressed against one another. Not Kyungsoo’s scene obviously, but he takes it in strides, as he always does, remains calm through it all, the aspiring anything that try to strike up conversation, and the thin veil of despair that seems to permeate every word about auditions and castings and part time jobs while waiting for a big break.

This is Lucas Wong’s world, he knows, and he’s had a taste of it, with night drives and iced coffee and talks about big dreams and traces of a perhaps darker truth sprinkled with talks of eternal damnation, but he’d never been faced with it this way.

He gets sick of it at some point, still.

His steps lead him to the upstairs balcony where he gets some fresh air, finally alone. As he looks up at the night sky over Bel Air, he finds himself noticing whispers from an open window, a voice he recognizes among hundreds, deep and low and rich. The language they speak isn’t one Kyungsoo can pinpoint, but he can guess, from the ease and the speed, that this must be either Mandarin or Cantonese, which Lucas is fully fluent in.

He does what he shouldn’t do. He leans against the rail to listen better, to trace the origin of the sound, when it dawns upon him that there’s a distinct breathy quality to Lucas’ voice, soft moans, sounding like sin itself.

*

Kyungsoo feels a bit off the following, as he gets set up the soup kitchen for today’s meal distribution to the homeless. He likes it, the more charitable work, something that feels meaningful and real, unlike some of the aspects of theology he finds himself having a hard time with.

It goes smoothly from there, preparing the food. He’s alone in the kitchen, the soft sounds of smooth rap the only rhythm to his prep, focused on the task of chopping vegetables and preparing rice and beans and hearty sustenance for the significant homeless population that needs any help they can get in a city like the one they live in.

He’s still tired from the day before, leaving the party, running away. He’d walked around the grounds of the property a few times to sober up before getting into his car, trying to get his thoughts in order. He prayed about it, during his nightly exercises, searching within to reflect upon the state of his own soul, when it had dawned upon him that he hadn’t felt, truly felt, God’s presence in awhile, now.

Flashes of flesh and sweat and lights, scenes painted with words in an uneasy English that trembled on a deep voice in the sanctity of a confessional. There’s a distinct tone with which Lucas Wong says the word _Father_ that reminded Kyungsoo of dads abandoning households without a word of explanation and of mothers sitting sometimes in the small kitchen of their modest rural home with a bottle of liquor after tucking their only son, with his weird behaviors and night terrors, to bed.

It’s hard to discern, the thumping sound of the bass in the sad mansion full of lonely people desperately clinging into lost hopes in a city of angels, what’s from the dreams and what isn’t. It had been Lucas Wong, maybe, with his lecherous coked-up casting directors that had all the elegance of exotic predators, his dancing next to more pretty boys with big dreams, love bruises and soft moans, the way he’d glance, sometimes, in Kyungsoo’s direction in a way that almost felt like a taunt.

Maybe it was. Maybe Kyungsoo’s imagining things. He most likely is, in fact, and he hates himself a little bit for it.

It flashes, suddenly, before his eyes, the span of pure white wings, the light, the blinding, blinding light, mouth stretched into a teasing smirk, so gorgeous, so tempting, and then hands, and lips, and tongue, everywhere. He can’t run, and the guilt is there, powerful, of having failed the Father, of only ever being able, now, to pray to silence.

_“You know what I am, don’t you?”_

Pain, sharp, in his hand, now.

Shit. Kyungsoo looks down at his hand, and there’s a nasty gash on his hand from not paying enough attention to slicing the onions properly. He represses the need to curse, runs cold water over the wound. 

The red of his blood tints the water in crimson as it disappears into the sink, twirling into abstracts, elongated smoke-like patterns, not unlike the way wine twirls into water with every celebration of communion.

He needs to get away from Lucas Wong, he knows it now, something sharp in his stomach he can’t really formulate, yet believes in all of his soul.

*

Kyungsoo goes through the motions, the following Sunday, preparing for mass. There’s a new weight to it, now, as he puts over his robes, the black cassock, and then the purple chasuble of the office of mass.

It’s a pretty day in Southern California, sunny, the members of the congregation gathering in the morning for the service. They still call him _Padre_ , still talk about their week with him, still check with the small details of the ceremony, who will be passing around to collect the alms, who will be doing readings.

It’s a pretty day but Kyungsoo feels so detached from it, like he’s not really in touch with his own body anymore. He can’t help but to remember the sleeping pills of his childhood, the year that followed his father’s departure, the small town apprehensions surrounding a Korean single-mom raising a weird solitary child like Kyungsoo, the call of the sea roaring at night not too far from their cottage.

Then, as he officiates, speaks of redemption and rebirth, of the miracle of resurrection, he sees him, in the back, standing there with his hands in his pockets, quiet and gorgeous, bleached hair shining like a morning star. Kyungsoo feels it, now, the feeling of God he’s been aching for, all over his body, to the tips of his fingers as he recalls with those same words the credo, about being born and raised, suffering and dying, going to hell and coming back on the third day.

_He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father._

_He will come again to judge the living and the dead._

There’s light, so much light, as he breaks the Eucharist, and the organ unleashes its most powerful melody, the wine is served like blood, and the congregation rises. The stained glass lets millions of shards of diamond and emeralds and rubies and sapphires shine over the assembly. Kyungsoo hasn’t felt this way about mass ever since he first officiated one, the sanctity of it, the thrill of feeling God’s presence, of hearing Him through the silence.

Lucas Wong, this time, comes forward for communion, last one in line, eyes cast in devotion up until he’s facing Kyungsoo distributing the host. He’s gorgeous, still, wide eyes and regular features, the face of an angel, Kyungsoo realizes now. An angel running away from heaven, yet remaining part of God’s creation, as all things are.

_“The body of Christ”_

_“Amen”_

And there, as Lucas extends his tongue, Kyungsoo gives him the host, fingers brushing against his lips, briefly, the same lips Kyungsoo remembers from hazy dreams he attempted so bad to repress. They're over his own, over skin, his cock. Their eyes meet, and the priest can see, now, the fire in there, the temptation that calls for him. There’s no resisting now, God’s will, and where it might lead Kyungsoo, now.

Lucifer was God’s most beautiful angel, up until he was cast out of heaven, the morning star, and in a way, this was all God’s plan, the need for hell and eternal damnation to exist for heaven to coexist along with it. Kyungsoo knows this, knows the vows he’s taken to put all of his faith into God’s grace despite sin, and it all makes sense now.

He knows what he has to do next.

*

“You’ve been avoiding me, Father,” Lucas says, and there’s something expectant and delicate to his words, earnest in the way only the devil can be.

He’s standing in the doorway of the small sacristy where Kyungsoo gets to take off his chasuble after mass, now only in his formal black robes. There’s the same glint in his eyes, playful and sweet and cheeky, and Kyungsoo can’t help but to remember their exchanges, the drives around the hills surrounding the city, the James Dean outfits and the cigarettes. He sighs, holds himself together for now.

“I was. I’m sorry,” he replies, turning to face him.

Lucas looks away, biting his plush lips. They’re so pink, almost red, like the color of blood. Kyungsoo thinks, briefly, about how wine poured into a chalice would look against them.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have put you in that situation,” Lucas says quietly. He seems almost repentant, in a way. “I know… I know you saw me for what I really am.”

He looks up, and it hits Kyungsoo, now, how young he looks. He’s reminded of the fact that the Lucas he knows is only twenty-one, moving into the city with big dreams, gorgeous in a way that only ever attracts the wrong kind of people.

It feels too familiar, Lucas coming closer to him, and he’s so tall, so perfect, cornering Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo lets him, just like that. He can’t help but remember the scene that had played in front of his eyes, in what seems like another life, the bathroom of that empty, lifeless mansion filled with bodies and loud bass, the glimpse of Lucas on his knees, taking cock into his mouth, eyes out of focus, clipped wings tattooed onto his back unfurling like the marks of a fallen angel.

Maybe that’s what Lucas Wong is, the devil, but Kyungsoo can’t really help himself by now. It happens fast, lips pressing against lips, large hands cupping Kyungsoo’s face while Kyungsoo’s own rest against his waist. It’s messy and forceful, and it feels good, alien to Kyungsoo who’s only ever been with a girl as a teenager.

Lucas is surprisingly pliant, still, and there’s a laugh that comes out of his lips, so sweet, so pure, as he lets himself be pressed against the cabinet, smiling. He’s so beautiful, like he’s the sun in the middle of winter, lighting up the whole room, and Kyungsoo kisses him more, can’t stop, sins, sins, sins. His hands start roaming under a cotton shirt that quickly get discarded to the floor, more bronze skin, desire flaring in Kyungsoo’s chest like the roar of a lion.

“Father,” Lucas whimpers, and he’s spread underneath him, eyes pleading, bleached hair fanned around his face like a halo. “Please…”

The silence fades, and he feels it again, the strength he needs, the absence he’d been faced with in his prayers, at last. He comes up, now hovering over Lucas, the morning star, the bringer of light, presses his hands around his throat, and squeezes.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a jokes about priest kinks and Kyungsoo and about Xuxi being Lucifer but then it snowballed into me nerding about theology and eternal damnation so like.... Yeah. Also, I've never been to California so uh sorry if there are inaccuracies on that front LOL.


End file.
